The Black Stone (19 page)

‘Yes, sir.’ A tribune strode away past the door.

Calvinus walked in. He was wearing an immaculate white toga edged with purple. ‘Corbulo.’

‘Good evening, Governor.’

Calvinus turned and pushed the door to. ‘I wanted to see you before you leave.’

‘Yes, sir. I really am sorry that I won’t be able to fulfil my duties here in Bostra.’

‘Not your fault. And I think you still have an opportunity to assist me.’

‘Sir?’

‘It seems you will be journeying through the very lands we discussed here yesterday, perhaps beyond Ruwaffa. I will be most interested to hear what you find there.’

‘Yes, sir. I will report to you as soon as I return.’

‘Sooner, if you don’t mind. The minute you’re within reach of the imperial post.’

‘Very well.’

Calvinus sat against the edge of the table. ‘So, Pitface gives you barely two days to prepare, sends you off into the unknown, then promptly disappears again.’

‘It seems time is of the essence, sir.’

‘For Abascantius? Oh, I’m sure of it.’

Cassius thought it prudent to press Calvinus on this cryptic reply. ‘I’m given to understand that the Emperor will shortly be arriving in Syria, sir. He wishes to see the stone recovered as soon as possible.’

‘Perhaps. Unlike Abascantius, I wouldn’t claim to know the mind of a man I’d never met.’

Cassius wasn’t sure how to proceed, only that he needed to know what the governor was driving at. ‘Sir?’

‘The Emesan stone was being guarded by a unit of the Sixteenth Legion, yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So surely its recovery is the responsibility of Prefect Sanctus, not Imperial Security.’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

Cassius wondered whether the governor knew about Ulixes. He certainly wasn’t going to tell him. ‘Sir, I think Abascantius believes a small, covert team has more chance of locating and recovering the stone.’

Calvinus examined the well-manicured fingernails of his right hand. ‘I know Sanctus well. As young tribunes we fought together against the Persians. He is intelligent and resourceful. You think such an operation beyond him, with five thousand men under his command?’

‘No, sir. But I was under the impression that the bulk of his forces are occupied to the north.’

‘They are. Regardless, isn’t it also possible that the army might not think it wise to cobble together a team of unproven auxiliaries for an operation in an area where an entire century was recently wiped out?’

‘Indeed, sir. I see your point.’ Cassius felt rather sick; he’d been foolish to get caught up even for a moment with Abascantius’s enthusiasm. The chances of success were minuscule: more likely they’d all end up like those poor bastards at Ruwaffa.

‘He told me what you did in Cyrenaica,’ said Calvinus. ‘And at that Syrian fort. Perhaps you do have a chance.’ The governor stood up straight. ‘But I repeat: why the Service?’

‘Glory for Abascantius and Chief Pulcher? Getting one over the army? Currency with the Emperor?’

‘Ah, almost there.’ Calvinus smiled genially. He seemed to be enjoying this game.

Cassius continued thinking aloud. ‘Or to atone for something. Some error or failing.’

‘Remember Pontius berating you for failing to anticipate the attack on Ruwaffa? The army, and the Emperor, expects the Service to provide intelligence – prior warning.’

So that was it. ‘Palmyra. The second revolt surprised everyone. It was Abascantius’s job to see it coming.’

‘His position and reputation are at stake. He wants you to help him restore it.’

Cassius wondered why he’d not considered it before; perhaps simply too much else occupying his mind?

Calvinus continued: ‘That’s not to say the Emperor won’t be extremely grateful if the stone is recovered; we can’t be seen to be outwitted by a bunch of thieves, after all. I mention this because I want you to realise it may not be simply the noble mission Abascantius made it seem.’

‘I understand, sir. Thank you.’

‘I’m sure you would have got there yourself in the end. And my motives are not entirely altruistic.’

The governor waited for Cassius to respond.

‘You would prefer that I not focus solely on the stone.’

‘You’re a bright lad. Find out what’s going on down there. I’ve spent the best part of my life protecting this province and its people; and for the first time in years we seem to have an emperor who knows what he’s doing. I’m not about to let it all fall apart now. Get word to me as soon as you can.’

‘Yes, Governor.’

Calvinus walked towards the door. ‘Come, you need a good night’s sleep and I’ve some dictation to attend to.’

‘Sir, I wonder if I could ask for something – I don’t have a portable map of the province.’

‘I shall have one of my clerks send one over first thing in the morning.’

‘Much appreciated, sir.’

Calvinus led him along the corridor and out to the courtyard. ‘I spoke to my officers about this Optio Mercator. Sounds like a good man.’

‘He does seems to be, sir.’

‘I shall mention you both in my prayers. Your men too.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

Cassius was surprised to see the governor offer his forearm.

‘Come back alive. All of you.’

Though the entire household was up at dawn, a delay with the delivery of the horses meant that Mercator and the auxiliaries beat them to the meeting point. It was only a stone’s throw from the hippodrome and, as they approached, Indavara glanced morosely at the enormous structure. It was the largest building in Bostra by a distance: walls formed of dozens of arches, the cavernous entrance flanked by two high towers. Today it was empty and silent, the only combatants some boys outside, wrestling in the dust.

Annoyed at being late, Cassius urged his horse between two basalt blocks and onto the grassy ground between the ruined temples. Mercator had the mounts neatly tied up and Cassius found himself rather taken aback by how large the group seemed with all the heavily laden horses and mules. Much of their load was water skins; the dry summer months weren’t far away and previously full wells and cisterns would soon begin to run dry.

Although some of the beards would need a few days, the Arabians looked perfectly at home in their baggy tunics and hooded robes. Cassius, however, felt rather self-conscious in his merchant’s outfit. He was wearing the pale blue tunic which had been hastily embroidered with several horizontal lines of lozenges. He had also purchased two large finger rings – one amber, one an imitation sapphire – and retrieved two gold bracelets from the hardwood box where he kept his valuables (his aunt had bought them for him years ago but he couldn’t stand the weight and brazen opulence of the things).

Cassius dismounted and threw his reins to Simo, then hurried over to the auxiliaries, most of whom were sitting on a column lying on the ground. He nodded to Mercator, then gestured for the men to stay where they were. Cassius saw a good deal of tension and worry in their faces. Soldiers liked (and needed) routine and the twenty men had just been unceremoniously pulled out of theirs, with little idea of how the journey and mysterious operation would unfold.

‘So,’ he said, gesturing towards his garish tunic. ‘Anybody want to swap?’

He gave an exaggerated shake of his head and was pleased to see a few smiles.

‘That’s the last time we’re going to use Latin. Greek is fine but I suggest you men keep up with the Nabatean amongst yourselves – for practice if nothing else. As you will have surmised from our location we are heading south, bound for Petra. I would like to reach the Red City in five days and Thugrat by nightfall. We’ll try to keep our heads down as much as possible but we haven’t time to bypass towns and leave the roads. We will see locals, caravans and legionary patrols. If you think you’ve been recognised by someone, let myself or the optio know. Except he’s not Mercator now, he is …’

‘Mertan.’

‘Mertan. And if any of the rest of you have Roman-sounding names, follow Merc – Mertan’s example.’

Andal put his hand up. He already had a thick beard and, with his lined, nut-brown face, could easily have just walked out of the desert. ‘And how shall we address you, sir?’

‘Like that. You’re supposed to be hired swords, so “sir” is fine. I am travelling under the name of Cassius Oranius Crispian – a Raetian merchant interested in the spice trade. Indavara and Simo – my attendant there – will go by their normal names. You men work for Mertan, who I hired here in Bostra to guide me south and provide protection. Any other questions?’

There were none.

‘Then let’s get going.’

South of Bostra, the Via Traiana cut through a fertile plain, with wheat fields and vineyards as far as the eye could see. The milestones were well maintained and the road smooth and even: compacted earth over paving slabs. The party rode two abreast, with Cassius and Mercator leading the way, followed by Indavara and Simo, then the rest of the men. Andal and Yorvah took it in turns to watch the rear.

Cassius was relieved to find his horse a placid beast. The Spaniard had passed on its name but he had already forgotten it. The mount – a tall, long-limbed grey – was carrying two weighty saddlebags and some rolled-up blankets that provided a convenient support for Cassius’s back. There was nothing amongst his, Simo or Indavara’s personal gear that could give them away. The mule trotting along behind Simo’s horse, however, was carrying a precious cargo. As well as the ‘wine’ barrel, it was also bearing a sack of barley, at the bottom of which was Cassius’s satchel. Inside were his spearhead (symbol of the Imperial Security Service) and his precious letters of recommendation from Chief Pulcher and Prefect Venator of the Fourth Legion.

The party was occasionally overtaken by the odd rider, including an army courier who sped past at a gallop. There was a remarkable variety amongst those they passed heading north: a gang of slaves chivvied along by some voluble guards; a toga-clad gentleman accompanied by his family and dozens of attendants; and itinerant farm workers trudging along with shouldered scythes and rakes. They saw a group of pilgrims too, easily identified by the wooden crosses hanging around their necks. Simo made no reaction but Cassius did note some disapproving looks from the auxiliaries, Mercator included.

Early in the afternoon, they spotted a small legionary fort a mile east of the road. According to Mercator, it was usually manned by a half-century but – owing to the current lack of manpower – now housed just a skeleton crew. They saw a flag flying but no trace of the legionaries.

Determined to use every hour of light, Cassius was extremely relieved when they finally saw the buildings of Thugrat up ahead. Mercator had warned him that they should leave a bit of time for their first effort with the tents, and with thirty-one miles covered for the day, Cassius pronounced himself satisfied with their progress. The surrounding terrain had become rather bleaker – rocky ground covered by low grass – and at the first sight of a suitably flat area, he called a halt.

Mercator and the guard officers then took charge. The tents were rudimentary affairs: leather coverings hung over simple frames, with ropes and pegs to keep them stable. There were three: one for Cassius, Indavara and Simo and two larger ones for the men.

Once the shelters were up, Simo and Indavara moved the wine barrel and their bags inside. Cassius rid himself of the annoying jewellery and handed it to Simo, whose next job was to pour his master a drink.

‘You saw those pilgrims, I suppose,’ Cassius said quietly as he took the mug.

‘I did, sir. We will pass close to Jerusalem on our way south, I believe.’

‘Not that close. Do you still have that cross of yours?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Simo, patting his tunic.

‘Keep it out of sight. I’ve a feeling the auxiliaries may not be impressed. Do not mention matters of belief to them at all. If anyone asks, you worship only Jupiter and the great gods.’

Simo did not reply.

‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Generally it took only the briefest mention of things religious for Simo to start rambling on about ‘the kingdom’ and ‘the righteous’ and how life should be lived in the service of ‘the Lord’. Still bemused by the Christians’ determination to indoctrinate others, Cassius had told Simo he was free to do so in his own time, but never in his presence. Sipping at the wine, he walked outside and met Mercator.

‘We have a problem. One of the men, Sajjin, has told Yorvah he wants to go back to Bostra.’

‘On the
first night
?’

‘We can handle it if you want.’

‘Physically?’

‘You don’t approve?’ asked Mercator.

‘In normal circumstances, I might. But I don’t wish to sour things so early. We’ve a long way to go.’

‘Apparently he got married last year.’

‘You know him?’

‘Not well. Yorvah says he’s a decent soldier but …’

‘Bring him to me.’

As Mercator left, Simo poked his head out of the tent. ‘Sir, what would you like for dinner?’

‘Something cold. We’re not going to bother with a fire. And put as many layers as you can down for my bed – my backside is sore.’